


your love is air, I breathe it in around me

by teatales



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (only a little do not get your hopes up), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens) speed run, Affection, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Character Study, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Getting Together, Kissing, LGBTQ Themes, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, No Sex, Nonbinary Character, Other, Post-Canon, Tenderness, Touch-Starved, aziraphale: rolls up his sleeves. crowley: fetch me my feinting couch, i would say touch famine but that could get confusing in this fandom, in a wibbly wobbly sense, like one and a half of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-07-20 06:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19987300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teatales/pseuds/teatales
Summary: Crowley's clothing was his armor. Wrapped tight around his corporeal form, it prevented others from seeing him, from touching him. Aziraphale set about to be the exception.Or, Crowley really is Like That but he is also Very Suppressed. Armaggedidn't results in changes in their relationship, but will Aziraphale go too fast for him?





	your love is air, I breathe it in around me

**Author's Note:**

> Good Omens is my entire life now. Title taken from Origin of Love by MIKA, which is imo the ultimate ineffable spouses song. <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vKBLLbwbqiY> (Please heed the warnings of the video or just listen to it with the video minimised) 
> 
> am I happy with this fic? not particularly. am I posting it anyway? ofc. bone apple teeth.

Crowley hadn’t made the Effort for a while. He was generally perceived as male, as that was the base corporeal form he had been assigned all those millennia ago. It was handy, for demons - for anyone really - to wander through the world with the power and privilege. The fact that They on high arbitrarily divided half the world into the oppressor and oppressed was one of the many things Crowley spent far too many nights pondering.

Gender was one of those delightfully human things that angels and demons alike didn’t quite understand, but fascinated Crowley to no end _._ He was a demon - immortal, ineffable, safe from most things short of holy water and heavenly wrath. He had a tendency to stay in his lane and keep to himself, in his head, with his wine and his plants and his bed. But he wasn’t _un_ observant. He saw what kinds of people - people like and unlike him - found trouble more than most. Those who avoided certain parts of the city at certain times of night. He liked staying in the background, for the most part. But his swaggering walk and long, flaming locks and tasteful sunglasses sometimes tipped some groups of people off. It was only another opportunity for mischief, really. Who more deserving of hellfire than bigots?

Crowley only entertained the idea of changing his form briefly and late at night. Maybe if he was more normative, not just for a quasi-person but also demon, whether short haired and suit clad or blistering and repulsive. Maybe he would be accepted, finally. Maybe the angel would look at him with something other than that pure, platonic adoration that beamed out of his every pore. But it was no use. Crowley was Crowley, and _conforming_ had no place in his vocabulary. That is how he began his path down and that is how he would stay.

The modern decline of public nudity (except for, of course, teenage pop idols and female celebrities - something he didn’t even entertain the idea of taking credit for) meant it wasn’t as necessary as it once was to possess human genitalia. As the years ticked by and fashions changed, Crowley grew awfully fond - as fond as an agent of hell could be - of tight trousers. He excused it away by the fact of how inconvenient it would be, to manifest the flesh that was associated with the rest of his form. And this demon’s life was one punctuated by the desire for convenience rather than comfort.

It was safer, too, to keep the fabric close to him, to not have exposed skin. If he passed it over as the notion of demonic fashion, so be it. Draping fabric and loose fits weren’t for him anymore. He wasn’t worthy of comfort. He avoided the reminder of Before.

^^^

_Aziraphale, golden and glowing. The first creature he had met after he Fell. Beauty personified, clad in white (of course) and smiling. Smiling at Crowley. He didn’t deserve it._

_The ancient world - though new to them, then. The horrors they faced and had bloody, bloody hands in and Crowley trying, desperately to assure Aziraphale that it would all be okay. Even if it was times like these that made Crowley Fall. Ineffable injustice and the questioning that gripped his non-existent heart and forced him to follow the morning-star down and down and down. He couldn’t let that happen to the angel._

_Golgotha and Rome and Athens, the style of tunics changing but Aziraphale being the one, single constant in Crowley’s life. His anchor. He was forever radiant, always tempting Crowley into sampling the latest delicacy he had come across, another bottle of wine. There had been less shame, then, over flesh and skin and touch. Aziraphale, a being of love, never found anything wrong in the affection shared between friends or lovers or strangers. For Crowley, it was all too much and not enough._

_Aziraphale, kissing his cheeks in greeting, touching his hand, walking arm in arm around the city. Crowley, daring to brush his shoulder only when drunk, looking while sober, longing in waking hours and in sleep and always, with every fibre of his being. Since the garden, since the sword, since a plant and a piece of fruit, since a woman and a whisper, and all the seconds minutes hours days years since._

^^^

It wasn’t possible, for a demon to love, let alone deserve it, let alone be worthy. That was the whole thing, of being a demon. Falling out of Their love. But the incident with the books and the church led him to consider that maybe Aziraphale could feel Something in return. Something close to the angel-shaped hole in his chest that had remained since Eden.

(After the war, the second, apparently, _world war,_ but Aziraphale and Crowley had witnessed so many wars that the name was no longer apt. After it all, Crowley was single-handedly responsible for the social conservatism that swept the United States for the next two decades or so. He honestly didn’t think it would take off. The denial and suppression were all too familiar to him now, and he couldn’t understand why anyone else could bare to endure it like this. And it was so _straight,_ too. He felt guilty for it years after, and did his best to aid the rights of women in compensation - nothing says demonic like sticking it to the status quo.)

By the late nineteenth century Crowley had moved permanently to London, only leaving when absolutely forced to for work. Conveniently enough, Aziraphale had opened a bookshop in Soho. (As much as it could be called a bookshop, when you didn’t sell any books if you could help it.) He told his superiors that since this was the home of the modern empire, any evil Crowley did here naturally flowed into the rest of the world. Something about moths and tsunamis.

(Crowley was, of course, referring to the butterfly effect, associated with the work of the mathematician and meteorologist Edward Lorenz. The phrase refers to the notion that a the wings of a butterfly may create tiny changes in the atmosphere that could ultimately change the path and existence of a tornado.)

England was gloriously polite and stuffy and not friendly. Not _un_ friendly of course, but not easy and familiar as the early days of Crowley’s existence. Satan bless the Puritans. And the amazingly-awful weather meant that all year round it was perfectly decent to remain covered up.

Thus Crowley didn’t have to make excuses for what he wore or how he looked, most of the time. His snake form obviously raised a few eyebrows, depending on his size and location, and humans had become incredibly fussy when the demon presented more femininely. He ignored them, of course, and drew his armor tighter around him. But the finest tailored clothes meant nothing in the face of ineffability and an angel that was determined to get close to him.

^^^

Aziraphale was the one who said he went too fast. Aziraphale was the one who fretted about their so-called fraternisation and the associated consequences. Aziraphale was the one who oh-so-sweetly tempted him into miracles and blessings and trips and doing favours, over and over again.

And it was Aziraphale who made the first move. The first concrete, explicit, we-are-doing-this and this-is-a-relationship move. 

The getting together wasn’t the hard part. Crowley had always been weak, really. He had always been soft. Prone to honesty and confessions in the most inappropriate of times, particularly for a demon. Existence had never been easy for him or too him but loving Aziraphale was the simplest thing in the world. As easy as shifting forms or driving the Bentley without watching the road or (not) breathing.

Aziraphale had been nervous, of course, still not having shaken off the conditioning of Above. He had obviously planned it all out, and Crowley went along with it, intrigued as to where he was going. Food and drink and conversation and then a speech. A monologue. Aziraphale said - _yes, I love you, Crowley, with all that I am, for all that you are, please, please, please spend this forever with me._ Crowley said - _of course, angel, how could I do anything but love you? I’m not going anywhere._

Aziraphale had kissed him. Gently, and so sweetly, and Crowley nearly passed out. Aziraphale didn’t notice, of course, and Crowley managed to avoid anymore contact before he extricated himself for the evening and sped off home. 

He wasn’t ignorant, however. He knew the general shape that most romantic relationships took. The kissing and casual touching and affection and physical intimacy. He knew Aziraphale had had sex. And Crowley knew that he wanted all this partnership had to offer. He just didn’t know if he would survive it.

In most things, Crowley went fast - Aziraphale wasn’t incorrect about that. He drove fast, ate fast, drank fast, adapted to change fast. He knew (he thought) that this was all impermanent, that it would all disappear at a moment’s notice. For the most part that was true, if you’re looking at the scale of existence for an eternal entity. The only two constants in Crowley’s life, both with elements of unpredictability, were his form(s), and Aziraphale. Changing star systems or moving in together or even getting married were inconsequential. Aziraphale learning his body, knowing him like that, was something he could never take back.

Aziraphale didn’t push him. He was much more insightful than most people gave him credit for, and since their first kiss he had clued into Crowley’s hesitance. He didn’t understand it, Crowley certainly wasn’t forthcoming, but Aziraphale could feel his love, all around him. If that was as far as their relationship went he was happy. More than.

A month passed, then two. They went along same as they always had done - dinner and drinks and theatre - only without the constant vigilance required pre-apocalypse. Crowley never stayed over, either. Aziraphale would wish him a good night, and declare that he loved him, and Crowley’s face would fall into a soft blush. He would reply in kind, and return to his flat, and they would spend their nights apart.

Aziraphale experimented, a little, when his loving nature got the better of him. A hand on Crowley’s knee, a touch on his shoulder, a small kiss pressed into his hair as he passed by. It’s not as if Crowley seemed to hate it or not enjoy it. The affection appeared to… overwhelm him. Like a short circuit in his brain. 

It seemed inevitable. One night, squashed into the sofa, Crowley attempted to maintain at least some distance between them. A romantic comedy on the television, a bottle of wine - the details weren’t important. Aziraphale was all _love love love_ and unconsciously, unthinkingly, placed his arm around Crowley’s shoulders like so many people had done in so many different times. 

Crowley froze. His breathing turned heavy before he scolded himself with the fact that he didn’t need to breathe. Aziraphale noticed, how could he not, and began to sluggishly extricate himself, tipsy and love high and sad, too. Before he could, however, Crowley melted against him. He let himself be touched, be held, be loved, and the roof didn’t cave in. He wasn’t smited. He wasn’t discorporated. His eyes were fixed firmly on the screen, and Aziraphale looked at him sideways. The angel couldn’t read his face, and left it alone until the credits began to roll.

Crowley remained still for two, three seconds before he launched himself off the sofa, grabbed his sunglasses, and started to ramble about needing an early night. He didn’t look at Aziraphale once. He paced about the room, wildly, as he collected his coat and jacket and keys, still talking.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, soft and unsure. Crowley stopped, half turned away from the angel. 

Aziraphale stood up. “Crowley,” he repeated, pleadingly this time. “Could you look at me?”

Slowly he turned to face Aziraphale, his glasses held limply in his hand. His yellow eyes were wide and wet, filled with unshed tears.

Aziraphale’s hand flew up to his open mouth. “Oh, my dear.”

Crowley blinked back at him. “I don’t need your, your _pity_ , angel,” he protested weakly as he wiped at his eyes. “Really I’d rather just… forget it.”

Aziraphale felt his chest tighten. “Crowley I don’t pity you. I, I, my heart _aches_ because I have hurt you so. Truly you must allow me to apologise for obviously transgressing you in such a manner. Whatever will make it up to you, consider it done.”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley begun, but couldn’t continue. What was he to say?

That he wasn’t hurt, but only reminded of the hurting he had endured in what seems like lifetimes ago but had never left him? That Aziraphale’s touch contrasted all his pain and suffering so sweetly that it made him cry? That the angel was always so soft with him, so tender, and Crowley honestly didn’t think he deserved even a fraction of it but greedily, desperately craved it despite his demonic nature? 

That he wanted more, so much more, but couldn’t bare to ask for it lest he be seen as the wanton thing that he really was? That he didn’t know what any of it _meant_ for them, for this, and that he was absolutely terrified?

Crowley decided to be brave. Just the once, only a little. He walked the few steps to stand in front of Aziraphale, close enough to see the every one of his angelic curls that framed his face like a halo.

He dropped his glasses to the floor and grabbed both of Aziraphale’s hands in his own. The angel watched on, wide eyed. Crowley rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s and closed his eyes, overcome at the trinity of contact he was experiencing.

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley breathed out, then swallowed. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m just,” _broken, out of my depth, wrong, undeserving, broken,_ “not used to it. The… touching.”

Aziraphale continued to watch Crowley’s face, his heart broke all over again at the confession and he squeezed Crowley’s hands in reassurance. Crowley let out a sound almost like a whimper before he slammed his mouth shut to trap it.

The angel thought about it. He knew Crowley as well as he knew anyone or anything in all of existence. He was a demon, and had Fallen out of Their love. He had colleagues, sure, and Aziraphale did too, but they weren’t _friends._ Aziraphale couldn’t recall any long term companion that Crowley had kept throughout the millennia he had known him. He had never been fascinated by humans as Aziraphale had been, either. As a matter of fact, he only went along with those sorts of gatherings for work, or Aziraphale. And it was well established that demons weren’t at all nice.

It was obvious, of course, when he thought about it. Crowley had never been touched.

Or at least, never with purpose, or never with love.

“Oh.”

Aziraphale knew how to do many things, but the easiest was loving Crowley. And he did love him, unreservedly. Whatever he wanted, whatever he needed, he knew that he would do it. He only feared that Crowley wouldn’t be able to tell him.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I, uh, yeah.” Crowley squeezed his eyes closed tighter in shame.

This simply wouldn’t do. “Darling, I love you, so very much. With all that I am. Whatever you need or, or however you see our relationship evolving, you have my total support. Alright?”

Crowley nodded, a little speechless.

“I want you. Just… slow?” Crowley opened his eyes and searched the angel’s face for any sign of rejection. He found none.

“You have me, Crowley. At whatever speed.” 

Crowley leaned down, tentative, into Aziraphale’s space. Aziraphale met him halfway. He rocked up slightly onto the balls of his feet, his hands slid up from holding Crowley’s to his neck and cheek. Crowley shivered, but continued on, and his lips found Aziraphale’s in a soft, sweet kiss. 

It was nothing more than a shallow touch, really. Their mouths remained closed, pressed together, barely moving. Crowley breathed through his nose. Unnecessary, but it helped. He adjusted to the touch, to the feel of Aziraphale against him, against his bare skin. It was a lot, but it was good.

Crowley sighed as much of the tension left his body. He pushed himself flush against the angel, thigh to shoulder, separated only by fabric, but Aziraphale remained steady, stable. His rock. His hands came up to clutch at his shoulders, desperate to never let him go.

Aziraphale brushed the hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck with his fingers, and he felt the goosebumps rise at his movements. Crowley whined, the noise left him like air out of a balloon, which opened his mouth against Aziraphale’s plush lips.

Oh, wow. It was soft and warm and glorious. Aziraphale let Crowley take the lead, still worried about overwhelming him too much. Crowley began to move his lips against the angel’s, and pressed against him further. He wanted to be of one flesh, joined, unending. He privately laughed at himself. A quasi-demon wanted to embark on the holy sacrament with an angel? He was ridiculous.

Aziraphale had opened his mouth too, now. Crowley let his tongue move forward, into the open space, but the feel of the angel against him and his fingers playing against his neck and their tongues together was too much and Crowley pulled back.

Aziraphale stopped his movements instantly, and waited to see if Crowley needed more space. He stepped back just enough to tug on the places where the angel’s hands touched him, and Aziraphale removed them completely. Crowley gave a tight smile and put his own hands on his hips, and panted heavily with his face torwards the ceiling.

“Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me, my dear. Would you like to retire for this evening?”

“No, no, it’s good. You’re good."

Aziraphale blushed, warm all over. “I’m so very glad you think so.”

He really was warm now, between the kissing and touching and the temperature of the room, and thought it was best if he removed some of his much loved layers.

Aziraphale took off his jacket and as the fabric rustled Crowley whipped his head down to look. He watched on, frozen. Aziraphale delicately undid his cuff-links - snake heads, with the centre scale seemingly heart shaped in the candlelight. He placed them neatly to the side, and smiled reassuringly at Crowley who, if human, would have had to remind himself how to breathe. Aziraphale deftly rolled up his sleeves - once, twice, three times, and his forearms were exposed. 

Pale, perfect skin. Unblemished, covered in a fine dusting of golden hair. Thick and smooth and lovely. His shirtsleeves were cuffed just above his elbows, and his bowtie was slightly askew.

 _Fuck_.

Crowley’s mouth fell open somewhere along the line, and was now dry with want. Aziraphale was beautiful. He knew this, but tried to avoid thinking about it. Now it was so painfully obvious, he was right in front of him, loving him, wanting to touch him.

“Oh, Crowley. I’m sorry, I should have asked if you were alright with me undressing so. Should I replace my jacket?”

“No!” he blurted out, then swallowed in embarrassment. Crowley felt like he was about to explode.

It was fine, he was fine, it was all fine. Crowley chanted that over and over in his head. He grabbed Aziraphale’s wrists, and used his thumbs to trace over his pulse points. He took in a shuddering breath, and practically launched himself at the angel.

Aziraphale managed to catch him in time and kept them both upright. He was now in a tight embrace, their cheeks pressed together and Crowley’s arms around his back and his own on Crowley’s waist. He was concerned, a little, that Crowley had pushed himself too far for his sake. Then Crowley relaxed, like he had on the sofa before. He practically melted into him like the snake he truly was. All boneless curves, fitted against Aziraphale like he was made to.

“Mm mm mmm,” Crowley muttered into the shoulder of Aziraphale’s waistcoat where his face was squashed into it.

Aziraphale suspected what he has said, of course, but wanted to be sure. “What was that, dearest?”

Crowley removed his face with a deep sigh, and propped his chin onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, his lips close to his ear. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Crowley. Very much.”

And it was good.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the past tense of smite is usually smote but it didn't scan well enough for me so I used smited. No comments about that are necessary. 
> 
> Comments are my favourite, and I would appreciate it if you left one!
> 
> EDIT: thanks so much for 100 kudos!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ineffable-anathema
> 
> EDIT 2: vote for what GO fics you would like to read next!


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